Chapter Text
It was a long year for both of them.
They wrote regularly, keeping each other up to date with their lives. Louis was busy as always, investigating this scandal or breaking that important story wide open. He sent along issues of the Prophet from time to time, and included bits and pieces of gossip or news that hadn’t made the official paper.
Harry went west, and started a bakery in San Francisco. It quickly grew in popularity, due to both the tastiness of the goods and the friendliness of the owner, and Harry found himself a local sensation. He loved it – the simplicity, the normalcy, the looks on people’s faces as they bit into a confection. At the end of the day, he handed scraps or unsold food to some of the children who populated the streets of the city, and before long they would arrive at his door just after closing. The only wizardry he allowed into his life was the mail from Louis, preferring the ordinary magic of a child’s smile or a carefully crafted cake topper. Several of his customers swore that the creations were magical, and he always laughed with them, but his wand remained tucked away in a trunk in his rooms, untouched and unused.
But somewhere around the four-month mark, he began to grow restless. Something was missing. He started waking up with ideas for icings that fizzed or cookies that gave off sparks when bitten into. And one Wednesday night, he found himself staying late after hours working on an idea for pastry filling that changed flavours from chocolate to vanilla to caramel. He fell asleep at the table, waking up only when his assistant, Kacey, arrived to open the shop.
He quickly cleaned up his mixings, telling Kacey he’d been working on a new recipe – which was true enough. But a few nights later he had an idea for a berry filling that would stain breath, and he couldn’t resist working on it. It took him another week of fiddling to perfect, but the feeling when he finally got it the way he wanted it was so satisfying that he laughed aloud.
It was only when he sat down to write about the breakthrough to Louis that he paused, realizing how much he had missed magic. He set down his pen and walked to his closet, opening the dusty trunk and rummaging around inside until he pulled out the small, thin box he was looking for. He opened it almost reverently, lifting out his wand with fingers that almost trembled.
He felt a rush of warmth travel up his arm, and his fingertips tingled almost painfully, but he smiled, remembering the first time he’d picked up the wand in Ollivander’s all those years ago and he’d just known.
“The wand chooses the wizard,” he whispered, flexing his wrist. Perhaps it was time for him to return the favour.
Over the course of the next month, he began to let magic back into his life. When a little girl knocked over a display plate, he swept the pieces behind the counter, and with a whispered Reparo, produced a “replacement.” At the end of the day, he sometimes sent Kacey home early, promising to do the cleaning himself. Then, after just a few quick spells, he would settle down to experiment. Each spell or recipe gave him a giddy feeling, filling an inexplicable craving, but feeding it too.
A month after picking up his wand again, he told Kacey he was moving back to England.
“It’s been years since I was there,” he said as they scrubbed pans in the large sink (he liked the feeling of the water, the satisfaction of seeing the caked-on food lift away under his brush, rather than relying entirely on magic). “I miss it, I guess.”
“Will you come back?” she asked. She was taking it better than he’d expected, honestly, but then, she’d always had a solid head on her shoulders.
“Maybe,” he said. “But that’s not the plan. I came here to find out who I was, and who I wanted to be. And I think I’ve done that.” He smiled. “It’s time to go home.”
“Where’s home?”
The question surprised Harry. Images flashed before his eyes, different answers whirling through his mind and across his tongue – his parents, his childhood home, Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, a certain pair of blue eyes half hidden under a fringe of brown hair…
“I don’t know, exactly,” he said at last. “Perhaps that’s what I’ll have to find out next.”
Kacey glanced at him sidelong. “From the look in your eyes, it’s not a where, is it?” she said. “It’s a who.”
Harry smiled, staring into the soapy water. “Maybe,” he said.
Kacey pulled her hands out of the water, wiping them on her apron. “I’m happy for you,” she said, touching his arm. “I’ll definitely miss you, but you deserve this.”
“Thank you,” Harry said softly, emotion welling in his throat. “And that reminds me – I want you to have the shop.”
Kacey’s hand fell away from his arm. “What?”
Harry laughed. “Who else would I sell it to?” he said. “You’re as much a part of this place as I am. And it’s not like I’ll have much use for it in England.”
“I’m not – I don’t – but-”
“Just say thank you,” he teased. “We can work out amounts that seem fair and that you can manage.”
“I – thank you,” she said. “I just – I can’t believe – wow. Thank you.”
“You’ve earned it,” he said honestly. “I can’t believe how far you’ve come, how much you’ve changed from that nervously eager girl I first interviewed.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said with a laugh. “
“I could see the dedication in you, though,” Harry said fondly. “And you proved me right.”
“And now you’re leaving,” Kacey said. “Back to England.”
“Back to England,” he agreed. There was a twinge in his chest – he was almost second-guessing himself; maybe he shouldn’t – but no, he’d made his decision.
“When?”
Harry lifted a hand to rub his nose, pausing just in time to stop himself from smearing strawberry jam across his face. He pulled his hands out of the sink, rinsing them under the tap and shaking the water droplets off his fingers. “The end of the month?” he said at last. “Whenever things are in order, really.”
“So soon?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s been a long time coming, I suppose,” he said. “I just didn’t know when. And now… now I don’t want it to be too late.” He flashed a crooked smile. “I guess I’m just a little restless. But I can stay as long as you need. There’s no set timetable.”
Kacey shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t want you to go, but you have to. I’ll be all right.”
Harry laughed. “That’s what he said when I came here,” he said.
He realized what he’d said a moment later, and the potential consequences. Homosexuality wasn’t much more accepted in Muggle than magical society. But as he glanced nervously at Kacey, she just smiled.
“He – your home?” she asked.
Harry let out a breath of relief. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s my home.”
~*~
A month later, Harry stepped off a boat that made him feel positively miniature and smiled at the raucous cacophony of British accents that populated the London docks. Mostly cockney, but there were some Northern accents, some Midlands, even a handful of Irish or Scottish winding their way through the air, no words discernable through the general hubbub but all contributing to the feeling of London.
Harry found himself looking in every direction, trying to take it all in. It wasn’t so different than when he’d left, some four years earlier, but somehow it felt strange and unfamiliar – the sights, the smells, the sounds, all of it.
He hailed a cab to carry him to the train station, but found himself staring out the window the entire ride. He was so distracted he nearly paid the driver in wizarding money, but caught himself just in time. He spent the train ride north staring out the window as well, the sight of rolling fields and cozy towns settling in his bones and whispering, we’re going home.
His parents picked him up at the train station in Manchester, and he almost cried when he saw them. His mother did cry, pulling him into a tight hug before pulling back and asking him sharply if he’d been eating properly.
“I’m fine, Mum,” he said, laughing. “I’ve been travelling for nearly two weeks, is all.”
“You look peaky,” she said, pinching his cheek. “We’ll have to feed you up. But my goodness, I can’t believe how grown up you look.”
Harry knew better than to argue when Anne was in a mothering mood, and she seemed to have stored up an excess since she’d last seen him. He couldn’t blame her, and he didn’t want to either – he’d missed his mother, though perhaps not as much as she’d missed him.
He spent a month with his parents in Holmes Chapel, walking down familiar streets and talking to neighbors and friends. They were all full of questions about what he’d been up to, which he would answer in half-truths and try to redirect the conversation back to them. They were all interested in the bakery at least, and several offered to give him copies of their family’s recipes. He accepted willingly, but whenever anyone asked what his next plans were, he could only tell them that he wasn’t sure.
He was still writing to Louis, but for some reason he wasn’t entirely sure of, he didn’t tell him that he was back in England. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want him to come visit. Perhaps it was that he wasn’t quite ready to rejoin that world. Perhaps it was just that the more he thought about the coming reunion, the closer it became, the more nervous he felt.
And he certainly was nervous. He was extremely nervous. It felt monumental, the kind of moment that divides a life into before and after, the kind of moment that changes everything. He didn’t want it to go wrong.
It took his mother three weeks to mention his distraction. Harry was preparing for bed when she came into his room, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“It’s been lovely having you back,” she said, patting the space beside her. Harry sat willingly, leaning against her. “We’ve both missed you something terrible.”
“I missed you too,” Harry said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “It was… a long time.”
“You’re welcome here as long as you want, of course,” Anne continued, stroking the top of his head. “But I keep getting the feeling that your mind is somewhere else entirely.”
Harry went still, trying to think what to say. “It’s… complicated,” he managed at last.
Anne nodded. “I’m not trying to push,” she said, “but I’m here to listen if you want me to. I love you.”
Harry smiled. “I know,” he said. “And I’m so grateful.”
They were both silent for a long moment. “Is it… wizard stuff?” Anne asked gently. “I suppose I wouldn’t be very helpful with that.”
“No,” Harry said. “It isn’t.” He paused. “Well, a little bit I suppose. But also not really.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well that was illuminating.”
Harry laughed. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “It’s a bit confusing, even for me. It’s a lot of things all at once.”
“Anything your poor old mum can help with?”
Harry laughed again. “You’re not old.”
“Older than you.” She poked him in the belly, the way she’d always done when he was little. “Older and wiser.”
She was wiser. She’d helped him through so many things in the past, from the bullying at primary school to the discovery of his magic to when he’d first realized his sexuality. She’d always been there for him, and she’d always helped, never judging. This was bigger and more complicated than any of that, but he supposed that problems grew as a person did. And he could certainly use her help.
So he told her. He told her everything. He told her about the case, and the anti-Muggle racism. He told her about feeling stuck between two worlds, not quite fitting into either one. And he told her about Louis. They talked for hours that night, only stopping when they both grew too tired to think properly.
“I’m proud of you,” Anne whispered as she stood up from the bed, stretching. “Remember that, no matter what. I know you’ll find your way.”
Harry smiled faintly. “I hope so,” he said.
When he woke up the next morning, there was a letter from Louis on the windowsill. Harry read it twice – Louis was investigating a rumour of an illegal Crup breeding operation, and had also nearly burned down his flat trying to make toast. Harry smiled the whole time he was reading it.
“Something’s got you happy,” Anne said, leaning in from the hallway.
Harry looked up at her. “Got a letter,” he said, holding it up.
“How did – oh!” Anne smiled. “From – Louis, was it?”
Harry ducked his head. “Yeah,” he said.
Anne came into his room, sitting at the foot of the bed again. “He really makes you happy, doesn’t he,” she said quietly. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
Harry bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “He does.”
“Do you miss him?”
He looked up at her in surprise. “Of course.”
Anne smiled. “Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
Harry sighed. “Trying to figure out the future,” he said. “Trying to find my place in the world. I need to know that before I can know his place in mine.”
Anne brushed a strand of hair off of Harry’s face. “You’ve grown up so much,” she said. “I’ve always been so proud of you, and of everything you’ve accomplished. Magical and non-magical alike. Whatever you decide to do, you have our complete support.” She smiled. “As long as you come to visit your dear old mum from time to time.”
“You’re not ol…” Harry started to say, but he trailed off as his mind jumped in a very different direction.
What if he didn’t have to choose?
His parents had never asked him too. They’d always been perfectly happy with both parts of his identity – all parts of his identity. Perhaps he couldn’t ask that of the rest of the world, but perhaps he could have both. At the bakery in San Francisco, he’d been happy. He’d been successful. He’d been comfortable. And he’d been still more so when he was trying his hand at magical recipes at the same time. Why couldn’t he have both, the Muggle and the magical?
“Harry?” Anne said, and by the expression on her face it wasn’t the first time she’d called his name. “Harry, are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry, Mum. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”
“And what are you thinking?” Anne asked, smiling.
Harry stood. “I’m thinking it’s time I found my home,” he said. He pressed a kiss to Anne’s cheek, hugging her tightly. “Thank you so much for everything,” he said. “I’ll leave on Saturday.”
“So soon?” Anne asked, but she was smiling as she stood. She touched his cheek gently, and he leaned into it. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “And so, so happy.”
Harry smiled too, blinking back the tears pricking at his eyes. “Thank you,” he said again. “I couldn’t ask for a better mother.”
~*~
Harry’s heart was pounding as he counted down the numbers on the tidy terraced houses. 34. 32. 30. 28.
This was it.
The walk up to the door was neatly kept, colourful flowers growing on either side. He mounted the three steps to the porch and rang the bell.
“Just a minute!” he heard a familiar voice call from inside. He waited, a quiet thud and a slightly louder crash passing through from the other side of the door. “Be right with you!” the voice called again.
At last, the door swung open and Louis stood before him, hair disheveled, shirt untucked, a tie loose around his neck. “Hello, how can I-” He stopped dead as he processed what he saw.
“Hi,” Harry said, smiling nervously.
Louis blinked at him for a long minute. “Harry?” he asked at last.
“The one and only,” Harry said. He smiled. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”
Louis laughed. “Never,” he said. “But – what are you doing here?”
Harry shrugged. “I’m back,” he said.
“You – you’re-” Louis seemed lost for words. “Where? Why? What?”
“I found myself,” Harry said simply. “I found my place. I know where I belong.”
Louis’ hand rose slowly, as if not entirely under his own power, brushing up Harry’s arm to rest on his shoulder. “And where’s that?” he asked quietly.
“Between,” Harry said. “I don’t have to choose.” He smiled. “I’m going to start two bakeries this time,” he said. “One in Muggle London – I brought the recipes from the San Francisco shop. And one in Diagon Alley.” He tapped his suitcase. “Just signed the paperwork for the building.”
Louis’ face was radiant. “You did?” he said. “You mean it? You’re back?”
Harry’s smile was soft as he stepped closer to Louis. “I did,” he said. “I mean it. I’m back. And I’m back for you too – if you’ll have me.”
Louis squawked indignantly. “What kind of question is that?” he asked. “If I’ll have you – Harry, I’ve been waiting for this day for eight and a half months.”
Harry laughed, half happiness and half relief. “Me too,” he said. “And I hoped – but I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions before-”
“You can jump my conclusions any time,” Louis said fervently, and before Harry could point out that that didn’t make any sense, Louis had slid his hand behind Harry’s neck and pulled his face down, engaging Harry’s mouth in a much more interesting and enjoyable activity. Louis tugged him in by the shirt collar, and the moment they were inside Harry dropped his bag, shutting the door behind him with one hand as he pressed Louis to the wall with the other.
“I’m back,” he whispered against Louis’ lips before trapping them in another crushing kiss. “I’m back. I’m back for you. I’m back for good.”
Louis’ arms wrapped around Harry’s neck, their bodies pressed tight against each other. “I missed you,” he whispered back. “What say we make up for lost time?”
Harry laughed, pressing one more kiss to Louis’ mouth before moving to trail feather light brushes of his lips along Louis’ neck. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”